


Distractions

by Qunayu



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Dirty Talk, F/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Hannibal, Self-Insert, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 06:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8834710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qunayu/pseuds/Qunayu
Summary: Hannibal is cooking you breakfast after a wild night at his house. You decide that it would be a good idea to distract Hannibal from his work, which causes him to make a mistake. Hannibal is not happy. You must be punished.





	

**Author's Note:**

> No beta. May have made mistakes. Just like writing this piece.

Hannibal stands over his pristine marble counter, preparing your breakfasts. He is in his usual white shirt, albeit a little crumbled near the hips and shoulders from last night, and that waist-apron over his neat dark blue trousers.

  
Today's breakfast is a Latke stack, with poached eggs, bacon, and a small Greek garden salad.

  
He is preparing the potato pancakes first. You watch him shred the Russet potatoes with meticulous precision over a wooden cutting board. He is extremely focused. His hands are quick with the knife. You eyes wonder up his wrists, and onto a lean, and almost stringy forearm. A vein or two are surfacing from the exertion.

  
The white sleeves are folded messily at his elbow. Above that are wide, broad shoulders; his shirt is buttoned one too low, exposing well-defined and wonderfully sculptured collarbones. Feeling tempted, your tongue graze your top lip at its own accord.

  
Looking up, you see a pair of dark brown eyes boring into yours. The corner of Hannibal's mouth is curving up ever so slightly, forming an almost contemptuous smirk. It seems as if he is cognisant of every one of your deepest and darkest secrets. Exposing you. Stripping you bare to the bone.

  
You quickly avert your glance, away from that nagging feeling under your skin. His knife is still working at the potatoes, the sound reverberates through the kitchen, matching the sound of your heart. You can still feel his eyes on you, while you wonder around his kitchen. Your finger lingers on the icy marble counter - a welcomed distraction against your own heated skin. You can feel a blush starting to emerge on your cheeks. It's getting hot in here.

  
The tag on the back of Hannibal's off-white shirt is tickling uncomfortably at your nape. You think back to your own t-shirt that you wore yesterday. Something - unfortunate happened to it. You hands move to the back of your neck to straighten the tag. Hannibal's shirt is large, and with that movement, one side of the collar slips down from your shoulder.

  
The knife pauses, then, after a brief moment, resumes.

  
You look across to Hannibal, who is now facing down, his concentration dedicated wholly to his work. He is onto his last potato. The rest all lie in fine shrews, every piece exactly the same as its peers.

  
You wonder back to Hannibal's side. His cooking is a performance in itself.

  
Suddenly, the shredding stops. He is not yet finished. Hannibal looks up, his nose moves. imperceptibly. He tenses his lips. "Please." He starts, with a slightly lilt to his deep voice. He beckons towards the dining room. "Patience."

  
"The dining room is dull." _You're not in there._

  
Hannibal does not react. Instead, he goes back to his cooking. His potatoes are done, and so on to the bacon. He starts slicing the smoked meat with precise strokes. A slice of bacon with completely even thickness falls right off the blade. His brows are burrowing. You must be bugging him. You wonder what would happen if you bugged him more.

  
Quickly and quietly, you lean yourself towards him, with a hand stroking down his spine. His back is taunt, you can feel every stretch of muscle under his skin. Hannibal's movement slows. "Please. You're a distraction."

  
Too bad you don't care. Another complete piece falls onto the board with a silent stroke, albeit taking a little longer. He continues on with another slice, while you explore his back, down to his hips. The shirt his wearing is not enough to cover his lean figure, every piece of him under your fingers.

  
Without warning, he slams down his knife. You look over his shoulder. The third piece of bacon is incomplete, his knife must have slipped mid-stroke. His art is imperfect. There is a flaw.

  
He turns around, his pupils are dark and his lips are tightly pursed. His expression is stoic. Hannibal does not look pleased. Uh-oh, you think to yourself. Perhaps this was not such a good idea.

  
"You are naughty." Hannibal's voice drops an octave, sounding almost like a growl. "What shall we do about that."

  
He moves to close the space between you, his large figure cowering over you. You take a tentative step back, and another, until you feel something cold and solid behind you. His fridge. No. You're trapped.

  
Hannibal chuckles, predatorily. He moves even closer and forces you to stare into his eye. In those dark brown shades you see something primitive, a merciless hunger that makes your skin crawl with dread. You flick your eye out of his. It's too much.

  
Yet you know you would not be so easily let off. Immediately, you feel a finger under your chin, titling your face up to meet his eyes once again. His long, surgeon finger brushes the bottom of your chin while his eye crinkle slightly at the sight of your fear. "I think you need to be punished." He moves to whisper into your ear. A soft whimper escapes your lips, and you close your eyes. You swallow in trepidation.

  
A warm breath tickles across your neck, but he does not make contact. Instead, you heard Hannibal inhale, deeply, savouring you. "You smell exquisite." He hums before leading with his rough tongue, sliding softly against your skin.

  
He trails down towards your throat, pausing suddenly as he nears an artery. His soft lips press deep into your skin, before a sharp row of teeth punctures hard. The pain takes you by surprise as you scream.

  
"Shh." Hannibal replaces his teeth with his lips, and sucks down onto the skin. You know a mark is going to stay. He lifts his head back up to your eyes, and you can see a streak of blood upon his front teeth. "You taste equally exquisite."

  
Before opening your mouth to respond, his lips quickly take yours. The metallic taste of blood, your blood, fills you, as his tongue toys with yours. His teeth scrape your bottom lip and you moan into his mouth. His hands are wondering over the front of your body, a finger grazes and flicks a nipple, sending shivers down your spine. You squirm under his touch.

  
Hannibal is not happy with your movement. He hums disapprovingly, before slamming both of your wrists above your head, against the fridge. He rips your shirt - his shirt - down the middle, disregarding the buttons, and exposes the front of you bare. He takes a hard nipple into your mouth, and circles it with his rough tongue, while his free hand plays with the other one. Pleasure races down your skin. You roll your head back and moan.

  
When his done playing with your nipples, his fingers trail down your stomach and under your panties. You know you're wet.

  
Hannibal's chest rumbles as he chuckles, his voice is deep and dark. "I am punishing you. You are not supposed to be enjoying this." Without warning, his index finger enters you. Your body offers no resistance as he brushes against your inner walls, and his thumb circles around your apex. You cannot help but lean into his touch. He pops another finger inside. You feel your body tense at the intrusion. He pumps his fingers three times before withdrawing completely. You groan at the lost.

  
Before long, he whips you around and pushes you against his pristine, marble counter, and strips his shirt off of you. Your bare back makes contact with the frigid surface. His hands are strong as he lifts you onto the counter, next to his cutting board, and pushes your knees apart. Hannibal is completely clothed in his official attire, in control, while you are exposed, every part of your body revealed under his eyes, at his mercy. He eyes you ravenously. You are his prey. He is about to devour you whole.

  
Hands skim across your shoulders as he pushes you hard onto the surface. Your legs wrap around his strong hips as you struggle to keep balance. As you lie there, he removes one hand from you and reaches down to his trousers. Hannibal is hard, a dark angry red against your pale skin.

  
His eyes remain unyielding on yours as he enters you, rough, the pain making you moan loudly. Without giving you a moment to recover, he is already racing, pumping hard into you.

  
"You've been extremely rude and naughty, my dear," Hannibal's whispers are dark as he breathes into your ear, making you shudder. "This manner of conduct cannot be allowed to continue."

  
He keeps a steady and firm rhythm as he drives into you. Quickly, the initial pain evaporates and is replaces by a carnal pleasure, originating deep within you. A wave of dizziness takes you. You feel yourself tighten. You're close.

  
Suddenly, he stops inside you. You groan, frustrated. Your body grips him tight, coaxing him to continue, yet Hannibal is not so easily persuaded. "I must see that you have learnt your lesson. I don't think you have."

  
"Please." You croak. Your throat is dry.

  
"You sound terribly insincere." Hannibal smirks, and he starts to move out of you. "I don't think you're understanding our situation."

  
"No-" You moan. "Please, Hannibal."

  
He pauses, staring at you. You put on your best puppy-eyes, trying to convince him that you are sorry. Yet Hannibal just continues and is on the verge of pulling out. "You haven't even apologised."

  
"I'm sorry." You whisper. It feels terribly shameful.

  
He exits you completely as if he had not heard you. You're empty, every part of your body is screaming for release yet none is given. You sniffle, biting your lips as you move your hand down and attempt to comfort yourself, yet he would not let you. He flips you around suddenly, and the counter feels like ice against your breasts. He enters you from behind, and drives deep into you before slowing again.

  
You wiggle with him inside you and coerce him to continue. He moves, albeit slowly, in and out of you. He's teasing you.

  
"You have been a bad girl." Hannibal purrs behind you.

  
A hand smacks you and a sharp sound rings through the kitchen. You yell. A tear runs through your cheeks. "I'm sorry." You cannot take it anymore. You wish he would just let you go.

  
"Louder, my dear." He smacks again.

 

"I'm sorry!" You yell again, louder this time.

  
"I can't hear you." His calm, deep voice, feels like chocolate against your ears.

  
"I'm sorry!" You are practically shouting, at the top of your lungs.

  
You hear Hannibal chuckling behind you. You slump towards the counter. You've lost, everything that is you now belong to him. You are tired, your head is throbbing. He strokes you gently and carefully, a stark contrast to the harsh treatment before. "You're a good girl. What would you like now?"

  
You body is limp against the counter and Hannibal, to tired to properly formulate a response. "I'm going to fuck you now." Hannibal speaks quietly.

  
Hearing the word fuck rolling from his tongue, you moan despite your exhaustion.

  
He starts again inside of you, his motion deliberate to target every part of you, eliciting sharp pleasures. You realise that you are his plaything, carefully controlled by the man. You are his property. You feel yourself spiralling towards orgasm again, and this time he does not slow.

  
"Come." He says, his rhythm kept in earnest as he drives into you, again and again, bringing you to a crippling orgasm.

  
"Hannibal-" You moan, as he continues, pumping you through until the very end. Your eyes are wet, trails of tear feel cold against the air as you come down. Hannibal's arms wrap around you, as you sniffle quietly against his chest.

  
"I'm sorry." Hannibal coos softly, his fingers rubbing your cheeks. "It will be alright."

  
You open your eyes and stare into those dark brown shades, and see on his face an exhilarated smirk that confuses you.

  
You run a finger upon your face, and only after lifting it to your eyes did you realise that they were not tears, but blood. You look down, the moment of clarity finally hitting you. You stand in your own pool of blood, blood rushing down from your neck, your carotid artery, all the way through your abdomen and your thighs. Your head is spinning. Hannibal's shirt is now a shade of startling sanguine, a colour your recall seeing on another shirt in his wardrobe.

  
Suddenly, you begin to feel very lightheaded. The room darkens around your eyes as you fall, the floor is slippery. You are exhausted and in need of rest. You close your eyes. You must sleep.

  
Before the world disappears, you hear a soft chuckle along with that deep, devilish voice.

  
"My dear, you would taste exquisite smoked with apple oak."


End file.
